


Strawberry Secrets

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [99]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Bickering, Bottom Sam, Breathplay, Curtain Fic, Domestic, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, Genderfuck, Ice Cream, M/M, Marking, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Series, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Sam In Panties, Slice of Life, Smut, Summer, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-07-22 02:52:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7416766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The air conditioning breaks yet again, in the middle of July. Staying cool seems to be a problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strawberry Secrets

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mcdanno28](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcdanno28/gifts).



> Happy birthday, Tricia, my dear friend and beta. <3

 

 

It’s too hot.

“Sam.”

“What?”

“It’s too hot.”

“...you said that already.”

“I didn’t. I thought it.”

“Uh huh.”

“I’m gonna give the a/c dude a hug.”

“You do wuv hugs.”

“Get off my bed.”

“This isn’t _your_ bed. It’s _our_ bed.”

“I bought it.”

“Because you broke the last one.”

“Mm. Let’s do that again.”

“Dean. All we’ve done today is lie here.”

“Lay here.”

“You lie. Heh.”

“If your mouth’s gonna be open, you know what you could be doing with it?”

“Nope. Too hot.”

“Bull.”

“Quit it, get your foot off of my foot.”

“Make me.”

“Don’t touch me.”

“Sam.”

“No.”

“Blow me.”

“Blow yourself.”

“...I’ve tried.”

“Ha!”

“Shut up.”

“Guess it didn’t work out for you, huh?”

“...”

“You fell _short_.”

“No one’s laughing at your stupid jokes.”

“I am. I’m picturing this now.”

“Like you’ve never tried!”

“Nope.”

“Sure.”

“Never _had_ to.”

“If you’re not gonna blow me now, I might have to try again.”

“Just don’t pull something.”

“You’re mean.”

“Dean, it’s too hot to argue.”

“It wouldn’t be so hot if you’d let me tape the fan to the ceiling.”

“No.”

“...or if you’d take off your shirt.”

“Fine.”

“Really?”

“There. Good enough?”

“The view is more than good enough.”

“Hmm.”

“Yeah?”

“...there.”

“You’ve had _those_ on all morning and you didn’t…?! Sam! Holy fuck!”

“Guess I forgot to tell you.” Sam rolls onto his side, facing Dean, a stray wisp of hair framing his face. “They got here yesterday.”

Life is cruel. Dean knew he should’ve checked the mail yesterday instead of Sam. Instead of curling up on the couch and watching some Sandra Bullock movie, they could have been celebrating _these_ : the perfect lace thong, royal blue, complete with soft stretch lace and a seamless front. They sit right at Sam’s hip bones, accentuating the curves there, and highlight his toned, muscular thighs.

And he hasn’t even seen the back yet.

The air conditioning unit gave out two days ago. At first, with temperatures in the mid-sixties, the loss was tolerable. However, an unexpected spike in temperature to the mid-eighties had Dean calling the repair company and offering triple overtime.

Even with the incentive, the best the company could do is three hours from now.

There might be something they could do to pass the time.

With care, Dean reads Sam--the open angle of his throat, the tilt of his chin, the access to his chest. With the shades down to block out the sun, their room remains the coolest in the house. Dean has no qualms about making it the warmest. His eyes never used to close so easy; his lips never used to trust so much that they’d reach their destination.

Contact begins like a needle on the groove of a record. The first kiss smooths over Dean from head to toe, submerged in his veins. He exhales into Sam. Pleased by the shudder in Sam’s shoulders, Dean continues, kissing Sam deep, languid, and demanding. Need has him change their positions; two languorous motions and Sam stretches out on his back, throat immediately exposed just the way Dean prefers. One hand on that responsive map of skin and nerves, splayed over vertebrae, Dean’s fingers steep like hot, black tea.

Sam’s pulse flutters. It plays to Dean. Staccato.

Dean bears down physical weight in multiple places--over Sam’s hips, grinding in circles to catch the graze of lace over his cock, then with his teeth on willing, slick lips. And last, in the intimate, intricate position where his fingers reach towards Sam’s heart.

A gasp. A muffled moan. A burst of wet, creamy excitement Dean feels through tatted silk.

Color sweeps across the bridge of Sam’s nose, like sunset on the curve of their street. Flushed and panting, Sam tests the restrictions on his movement. Their lips meet. Dean groans into the kiss, pushing back against Sam, forceful and ardent, increasing the dip in the mattress. Muscles in Dean’s hips clench and release. He breaks their mouths apart, leaving Sam gasping, and attacks the column of throat all his for the taking.

Teeth sink past well-formed bruises.

Details on details.

Sam tilts his hips, opens his legs, slides one foot down the length of their bed. The nightstand rattles as soon as Dean pops off a particularly sensitive spot just beneath the arch of Sam’s jaw line.

Side B of the record they play between each other does not waste time. No more teasing.

Opportunity arises and Dean hooks it, fingers infused in the muscle of Sam’s thighs. He sits up to consume the marked view. Hands above his head, Sam takes advantage, spread out and confident. His chin angled up signals a challenge--if Dean’s up to it.

Pushing aside humidity and heat, Dean grasps long, smooth legs and positions them exactly as he wants them: slung around his waist. Pliant, obedient, and trusting, Sam moves in the calmest ripple to each action. It’s only when Dean dips down--dragging his tongue across Sam’s sternum--does Sam lose it. Sam arches and yanks Dean by the hair to meet for one crushing, demanding kiss.

Dean laughs, dark and hushed, and twirls a tube of lube in his right hand. He slips the tube to Sam, who wastes no time and eagerly reaches forward. Kissing Dean--once more offering his throat, his jaw, his chest--Sam slides his fingers into Dean’s boxer briefs. Two firm strokes of Dean’s heavy, flushed cock follow, pressure applied and increased from the thick base to the sensitive head. Sam thumbs the head, rubbing back and forth, his hold slick and hot. With a groan, Dean pumps his hips forward, then knocks away Sam’s hand.

He places one hand on their bed to steady himself, and the other on Sam’s chin, cupping, fingers brushing against his lips. This is old. This is motel sheets and duffle bags. He doesn’t have to guide his cock. It finds Sam’s hole and nudges against it, evocative and provoking; it proves to Sam that Dean’s hard enough to push inside him without a hand there to help.

Sam applied a little less lube than he should have.

Pain joins pleasure on the first scorching thrust in. Dean echoes Sam’s groan as his cock breeches the first tight ring of muscle. He watches his cock disappear, inch by slick inch, opening Sam up more and more and more. That impossibly small, pink muscle stretches, sealing itself over Dean’s cock, impatiently sucking him in further. Dean shudders and lets out a moan, eyes closed, focusing on the aching pressure around and inside his cock. Sam feels so good. So fucking good. Soft. Wet. Sweltering.

Once his hips meet Sam’s once again, Dean opens his eyes.

Instinct commands his hips to buck, driving into Sam rough.

With his free hand, Dean presses two fingers to Sam’s lips. Sam moans once, licks the offered fingers, and takes them into his mouth--then his throat. He wastes no time or energy, bobbing his head, popping off only to release sounds of overwhelming pleasure mixed with the right amount of pain.

Up, down, circling around, Sam’s tongue works in the same rhythm Dean fucks him.

Dean builds up a rhythm, one-two-three, then stops it, his cock buried in Sam as deep as it’ll go. He applies his weight, bearing down, focusing on creating more and more pressure. Lace scratches his stomach. Sam gasps. Their lips meet for one feverish second. Dean pulls out from Sam, slow and tortuous, until only the bloated head of his cock remains. Gentle whining and the rise and fall of Sam’s chest has him thrust back in, timing his hips, drawing out the act. He fills Sam up over and over again, increasing the pace, until they’re working against each other, struggling for control and both of them begging for more. Harder. Faster. More. More. More.

Sweat transfers skin.

The nightstand rattles, two inches in the air. Beneath them, their mattress takes the punishment, squeaking, creaking, complaining. Sweat and sex fill the air. Dean’s hands break from their positions and focus on Sam’s throat, squeezing, playing the bones there with expert knowledge.

They’d kill anyone else.

This is a map Dean drew, gifted to him--and only him.

He draws back up, hands groping Sam’s ass, and continues to fuck Sam, working his hips in circles. Every moan rewards his efforts. Every gasp begs for more. Dean grasps the limit of what Sam can take and harnesses it into something powerful. The slam of his hips and squeeze of his hands reckons with the solid, unyielding, pleading movement beneath him. Angling his cock, fucking Sam in long, punishing strokes, Dean closes his eyes for a few daring moments. He sacrifices sight for complete immersion.

Total focus.

“There,” Sam gasps, “...there! Right, Dean, there!”

Dean opens his eyes and asks his question. Words hide under the shadows of action and perception. Sam nods once, lets out a deep breath, and grasps his cock through the panties. Benefits from the friction and grip reflect in the undulating pressure over Dean’s cock. He backs off, pulling out just enough, watching Sam’s hand stroke faster, his movements become more and more desperate.

Looking down at his hand, Sam no longer times or controls his breathing. His mouth forms into a lovely, pink circle. That blush across his face--good turns amazing.

“Say it,” Dean growls, shoving his cock inside Sam, full force, just slightly off target. “Say it, baby.”

Sam immediately, impossibly tightens around Dean’s cock. His thighs tremble. His nipples peak, chest pushed out as an offering, a question, a plea. Dean licks his thumb and forefinger to oblige. Rubbing his thumb over the nub, he pinches, squeezes, pulls.

“Gonna come… oh fuck, Dean…” Pleas become desperate, low, guttural growls. “Fuck me, fuck me harder… ah… coming, coming…!”

Pressure and force take center. The nightstand topples over.

Knowingly, Sam keeps his eyes open for Dean to watch him watching the first spurt of come. Creamy and thick, it lands in a rope on Sam’s chest, followed by another in quick succession. Sam milks himself, muscles clenching over Dean’s cock, One vice-like squeeze wrenches out a groan from Dean.

The dresser scratches the floor on its sudden three inch lurch from the wall.

Coming inside Sam is everything. His hips move without hesitation, only instinct and the deepest sensations. He pictures it as he feels it--filling Sam up, marking him inside as he has out.

His orgasm pushes the boundaries of his own emotional and physical limits. Winding up, letting go, he eases control over to Sam, who cups Dean’s face as his first act.

“Breathe,” Sam coos, his own breathing erratic. “Breathe.”

“I am, I am.”

“From your diaphragm, Dean.”

“Uh huh.”

With gentle hands on his face, Dean leans into the touch. He accepts the help. The sheets rustle as they shift. Sam’s feet manage to be cold as ice despite their activities and the heat. Regrettably, Dean slips out of Sam. Now that they’re not adding to the temperature, it sinks in all over again.

It doesn’t stop Sam from pressing a kiss to Dean’s cheek. Nose to Dean’s jaw, Sam laughs softly. “We need to nail down stuff in here.”

Half an hour later, Dean lumbers into the kitchen.

He uncovers two hidden strawberry paletas from the cavernous depths of the freezer.

Unwrapping both treats, and taking a lick from Sam’s, he notices something on his way back to their bedroom. He leans on his cane, sneaking a small bite from not-his-but-what’s-Sam’s-is-his’ paleta, and hands it off to Sam.

“Living room,” Dean murmurs, settling back in bed, content with his paleta and the sight of a thoroughly debauched Sam in panties.

Sam frowns at the state of his paleta. “Hmph. What about the living room?”

From their bed, Dean opens a window. He holds his paleta in one hand and with the other, traces the edge of royal blue lace on Sam’s hips.

“Gotta nail stuff down in there too.”

 

The a/c guy tries to get fresh with Sam.

“He did not,” Sam insists. “You think anyone who talks to me and gives me their number has ulterior motives.”

Over dinner, in their now air conditioned dining room, Dean quips, “That’s because they do, Sam. You’re too fucking trusting and noble believing in people being good.”

Dinner cannot be before six. Dean knows he’s an old white dude, but he refuses to eat like one. True, his diet sees a little less hot sauce these days, but he’s not eating dinner at four o’clock and having applesauce for dessert. Fuck that noise. There’s a Boston creme pie cake sitting in the fridge with his name on it--literally, he took  Sharpie and wrote his name on it last night, even though Sam professed no intention of harping in on his sugar high.

“How awful is that--believing in good instead of paranoia.”

“Takes years off your life.”

“Like that sandwich you made right before dinner.”

“Hey, who snitched.”

“You left the mayo on the counter.”

“I regret nothing.”

“You couldn’t wait for dinner?”

“Nope.”

“Clearly.”

“What? You were about to run off with the a/c guy.”

“You’re right. I was. Then I remembered this pain in my ass.”

“You’re welcome.”

“...”

“That was all me.”

“Uh huh.”

“You can thank me later too.”

 

After a generous slice of Boston creme pie cake, Dean enjoys a blow job of epic proportions.

Instinct tells him to question these good things. Sam tells him to shut up and relax.

They were on the couch, watching yet another Sandra Bullock cinematic masterpiece, when Sam reached over and just… started. He palmed Dean through his basketball shorts, made his hand all the more welcoming after the application of some lube, and proceeded on delivering an A+ hand job.

Sam made it a million times better by then getting on his knees and taking Dean’s cock into his mouth. Inch. By. Inch. Until the head of it bumped against the back of Sam’s wet, hot throat. He works the entire twitching, swelling length to absolute hardness. Pink lips drive Dean’s heart to an intense throb against his chest. Without further poetics--holy fuck, Sam _blows_ him.

Sounds of slurping, sucking, smacking lips, tongue, and mouth fill the living room.

Sandra Bullock doesn’t stand a chance.

Dean spreads his legs, allowing Sam room for his hands to scratch and paw at his thighs. Sighing, he runs a hand through Sam’s hair. In certain places, Dean tugs, just enough, and the pressure over his cock alternates. Immersed in the sounds and sensations, Dean lets out his own moans of complete adoration. He shivers at the feeling of Sam’s tongue rimming the underside of the leaking head. He inhales sharply at the muffled moan given shortly after.

Bobbing, working, purposefully choking, Sam ramps up the pace. He deep throats, nose to the base, and applies pressure with the muscles in his throat. Fingers sink into Dean’s thighs. Nails embed in the nerves there. Pain spills over into pleasure, chased by added spit, more tongue, and the very vision of Sam between his legs.

One tug on chestnut hair and Sam glides his mouth over Dean’s cock--one, two, three times up the entire shaft before closing his hand around the base. At the head, Sam sucks, his cheeks hollowed, pressure focused on the underside. Then he does this swivel and swirl with his tongue…

Thrusting into Sam’s mouth, Dean digs his hands into the couch.

Muscles tense.

And release.

He spills into Sam’s mouth, coming hard, uncaring of the noise he makes. The feeling of Sam swallowing, messy and voracious, amplifies every twitch, throb, and pulse.

Dean’s chest rapidly rises and falls. He manages to give a pleased groan at the sound and sight of Sam popping off, licking his lips, looking incredibly pleased. By no means a stranger to reciprocating these blow jobs, Dean knows that come--yeah, even his come--isn’t exactly ice cream flavor material. In gratitude, he pulls Sam up for a kiss.

A strawberry paleta magically appears on the couch. Dean unwraps it, takes a lick, and passes it over to Sam, seated again.

“You’re the best.”

“Yeah,” Sam breathes, his voice shot. “Guess I am.”

“You gonna tuck me back in though?”

“You gonna blow me, next?”

“If you want.”

“Ehh.”

“Uh huh.”

“I kinda came.”

“Good.”

“Mmhmm.”

“You gonna share that?”

“You gave it to me.”

“To share.”

“Hell no. Get your own.”

“That’s the last one.”

“That’s what you said about the other one.”

“It’s survival, Sam.”

“You don’t get to talk about survival with your dick hanging out all over the place in our living room. Put that thing back where it came from.”

“Or so help you?”

“Yep.”

“Just a lick. C’mon. Then I’ll leave you alone.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

“I’ll blow you later.”

“Excuse you? I’m done for today.”

“...whatever.”

“Hey! You said _this_ was the last one!”

“So I lied.”

“You’re worried about me running off with repairmen and _you_ have your own dirty little secrets.”

“How many of these you think it’d take to make my come taste like strawberries?”

“Hello, diabetes.”

“I’ll be a national hero if I figure it out.”

“...”

“Where you goin’? Sam?”

“To figure out exactly how many paletas you have in this thing--and to confiscate them.”

“Hey! You’re just jealous my come’s gonna taste like strawberries… Sam… Sam?!”

 

They’ve managed to make the house hot again, even with the a/c fixed.

**Author's Note:**

> Phew! Flexing those porn muscles! :D
> 
> I've missed these two and this whole verse. Writing it feels like coming home. There was supposed to be plot in this fic, but I decided to let the boys have some fun for the sake of having fun. We can get to angst later. In the meantime, grab a strawberry paleta and enjoy again. <3
> 
> My amazing friend Tricia asked for a birthday present fic based on the line: dirty little secret. This is the (bizarre) result.
> 
> Photo credit: popsypops.com


End file.
